


Quiet Night In

by little_seahorse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/M, Fem!Sherlock, Filth, Genderswap, PWP, fem!Croft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 21:51:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_seahorse/pseuds/little_seahorse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No preamble or buildup, just a slice of pure filth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet Night In

**Author's Note:**

> The image of fem!Croft riding Lestrade would not leave me alone, so here we are!
> 
> Unbeta'd.  
> Tenses are deliberately all over the shop.
> 
> Feedback, concrit and offers of undying love welcome.

"Yes, that's it,"

Greg Lestrade must have finally kicked the bucket, given that he's surely in heaven.  
(He hasn't, of course, but it's a near thing)

Mycroft looks down at him from her perch, mouth curved in a lush smile. 

"Touch me."

Who is Greg to refuse such an eloquent demand? He shifts his hands from their white-knuckled grip on Mycroft's hips, one hand reaching for her neck, the other sliding up her twisting, sweat-slick side. 

Mycroft groans, dipping her head slightly to rest their foreheads together, her hips slowing to a deep, filthy grind. They pant, open-mouthed into each others skin, Greg's hands stuttering across the expanse of Mycroft's back, restless and hungry.

Greg licks at her top lip, relishing the salty tang of the sweat gathered above. She is perfect. 

"You're not, nng! dead, darling," Mycroft's eyes are soft with amusement. Greg nips at her chin, pushing his hips up in retaliation.

Her head tips back at this, and she hisses her appreciation, clutching at his shoulders for leverage to push back down.

"Christ, so good, so good My," Greg has closed his eyes, the strong, pale body in his lap becoming too bright to bear.

"Yes, yes...look at me," Mycroft leans in again, rhythm steady but building as she mouths at the shell of her lover's ear.

Greg obeys, looking between them, taking his fill of Mycroft's gorgeous belly, perfect and soft, the hypnotic bounce of luscious breasts, and the scratchy meeting of their pubic hair.

"Perfect..." he gasps as Mycroft tightens around him, soft wet heat becoming his prison.

Mycroft moans in his ear, and Greg shuts his eyes again, seeking control from within to stave off the release rapidly gaining on him.

 

"I want you in me always, Greg, do you know?" This earns a rumble from Greg, and another powerful thrust into Mycroft's core.

"Tell me, My, ah, say it," his arms wind around her back, bringing them chest to chest. He rocks gently but steadily now, determined to bring her off again before he comes.

More growling moans from Mycroft, before she continues, flicking her hips forward as Greg fucks slowly into her.

"I crave you, love. I struggle through reams of dull papers, fighting off the urge to call you in, to shove you beneath my desk and bring your mouth to me, right where I need it."

Greg groans his delight, clutching tighter and rocking harder as Mycroft chases him toward orgasm.

"Unng, your tongue, I sit and want it for most of the day, but I want you even more, want your tongue, your cock, your arse, your cum,"

"My, oh god My, yes, yours, all yours," Greg is getting close, the sensations racing beneath his skin, of Mycroft riding him as though she were born to do it.

"Will you give it to me? All of it, as deep as you can, love, that's it...oh god," her pleas gave way to a loud groan, cracking in the middle as she started to come.

Greg holds on for dear life, staring in rapture at the gorgeous creature writhing and clenching above and around him.

Mycroft slowed her movements, thighs trembling and gulping in breaths of air, Greg shifting his arms close around her back, tipping them forward and driving back in.

She breathed and breathed, appreciative groans pushed from her lips, hands fisted in Greg's sweaty hair as he fucked into her like a man on the brink.

"That's it, love, that's it," Mycroft luxuriated in her afterglow, hands grabbing at Greg's hips and arse greedily, pulling him deeper. 

Greg buries his face in her neck, hips bucking and he's so close, no thoughts in his mind but for three words, "more, this, always," he's never felt safer than he does now, with Mycroft's long, long legs wrapped tight around his body, deep inside the most perfect place. He is wanted. Mycroft's hum of pleasure pushes him over, Greg is helpless as he shakes and comes, falling apart as he spills everything he has into Mycroft.

Mycroft has her eyes closed, basking in the warm, hot pulses filling her up.

"Perfect, my love." She kisses his cheek, lingering tenderly as her ankles unlock, legs slipping wider to rest on the sheets tangled beneath them.

Greg slips to the side, falling beside Mycroft completely spent. 

Mycroft shifts up onto her elbow, leaning across Greg's heaving chest before promptly laying down.

"We'd better not fall asleep here," Greg murmurs, turning his head to press kisses into Mycroft's hair. She hummed, but made no move to rise.

Too late, Greg hears furious footfalls approaching the door, but he's far too exhausted to worry, or, you know, put some pants on.

 

"Sherlock, what's going on?" John's worry carries up the stairs, following his lanky flatmate, who's thrown open their bedroom door in as dramatic a fashion as possible.

"Hello, Sherlock," Mycroft said, chipper as can be.

Sherlock's face flushed a remarkable red as she took in the tangle of legs and linen upon her bed. 

"Out. Now. Get out, both of you." Sherlock turned around and steered John back down the stairs, but not before John copped a shocked eyeful of Mycroft's arse and Detective Inspector Lestrade's post-coital flush.

"What the hell is this all about?" John is scratching his head, too surprised at the little tableau of afternoon delight he'd just witnessed to be properly affronted about the question of who on earth let the pair break into 221B to begin with.

"I don't know, I don't want to know, I want some bleach for my brain. John, will you fetch some? Beneath the sink." Sherlock threw herself upon the sofa, arm covering her eyes.

John couldn't help but smile at the picture, but it ran away from his face as Greg and Mycroft came trotting down the stairs.

Mycroft held her head high, dragging Lestrade along in his wake as he swept from the flat, Greg waving weakly and throwing an apology over his shoulder as they departed.

John sighs. Sherlock peeks at him from beneath his wrist. 

"You know what this means, don't you?" He asks Sherlock, who remains frozen on the couch in his ridiculous pose.

"Of course I do, but do you?"

John frowns, confused.

"It means i'll be doing laundry instead of getting an early night, that's what."

"Oh..."

John briefly wondered...but no. Silly.

"On second thoughts, perhaps we should just make a bonfire. What do you say?"

"Oh John," Sherlock slides elegantly from her prone position, stalking across the room and resting one hand on John's chest,

"Arson before dinner? You do know the way to a girl's heart." 

John gapes at her, speechlessly watching as she sweeps from the room and positively sashays up the stairs. He shakes his head as if clearing a fog, and follows.

 

* * *

 

"Tell me you didn't plan for that to happen."

Mycroft gave Greg her best "Who me?" expression, which did nothing but confirm his suspicion.

He snorts, pulls her across the seat towards him and says, "My, you filthy exhibitionist."

She laughs at this, and Greg realises too late that she's taken that as a challenge.

Mycroft straddles his lap once more, skirt rucking up her thighs as Greg sighs and leans in for a kiss, still smiling.

He surrenders, and thanks whichever deity might be listening that the car windows are tinted, and the driver hired for their monumental discretion.


End file.
